


moments passed

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: AU in which soulmates share pain*a collection of drabbles, can be read together or individually*
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	1. we were bound to burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the big soulmate reveal w some minor canon tinkering cuz i can

Whoever decided the implementation for soulmates deserves a severe grounding and a stern talking to. There has to be some other way to point souls towards each other, something other than the sharing of bruises and broken bones. There has to be something better than blindly taking someone else’s pain and scars with no indication of where they are or how to find them.

Maybe, if your soulmate weren’t such a clumsy, cumbersome, injury-prone asshole - with the number of concussions you’ve wielded with no explanation, you’ve earned the right to refer to them as such - you wouldn’t have as many issues with soulmates. Maybe, if you didn’t spend so many nights nursing injuries and praying your soulmate lives long enough for you to meet them, you wouldn’t hate it as much.

But you were dealt your hand, and it’s involved the precarious cleaning of bloody noses and broken knuckles and more than your fair share of bandages. When you were younger, it was more infrequent, but the last two years have been like a never-ending turn as a punching bag; a punching bag who can’t see who’s hitting it, who isn’t even the subject of the anger.

If it weren’t destined to hurt you, you’d punch your soulmate right in the mouth the moment you meet them or figure out who they are. But you’d only end up with a mouth full of blood, too.

* * *

You’re walking along the grass path beside the road, enjoying the cool night air and the quiet, when Billy Hargrove’s car whizzes by, narrowly avoiding clipping you as it speeds past. You lurch back, sucking in a gasp, and your gaze follows the navy blue car as it zips down the road and turns down the road leading to the Byers home.

There’s nothing special about it, no signs or fireworks that lead you to the urge you to move, nothing but a feeling, a twisting in your gut, an instinctual command to follow. Like there’s something waiting at the end of the road, something you need to see, or something you already have seen, but didn’t realize it. It’s an intangible, indescribable feeling, but it has you chasing the car and kicking up dirt before you’ve even consciously decided to run.

When you reach the Byers driveway, you catch sight of Billy Hargrove standing across from someone you can’t see. The two are tucked into an argument, and though you know you should _go_ , get the hell _away_ from Billy Hargrove and the dangerous chaos he drags behind him, you can’t find the power to move your feet.

Billy rears back and throws a punch, the crack echoing all the way back to you at the edge of the drive. Fire sparks in your jaw, a shocking and stinging pain that makes you double over and gasp for breath.

Whoever Billy hit drops to the ground and onto their back, curling in on themselves just as Billy slams his boot into their gut. The kick knocks the air out of you, and if you weren’t so focused on staying conscious and breathing, you might wonder _how_ , wonder _who_ the hell he’s hitting, but your thoughts are languid and hard to catch as they scatter and bang around your skull. You drop to your knees, gasping for breath, and when you lift your head, both Billy and the person he dropped are gone, the Byers wide-open front door indicating they’d retreated into the house.

 _Go home, you foolish bastard. Go home_ , you tell yourself.

Instead, you push to your feet and stumble toward the porch and up the steps, using the wall for balance as you cross the threshold. The pain in your jaw has lessened to a deep ache, but each breath is agony, and you stagger forward, slowly, carefully.

Every spare inch of wall is covered in sheets of paper forming a kind of vine through the halls and into the main room. You recognize the kids from around town - Dustin, Mike, Max, and Lucas - who are scattered about the room, yelling at Billy Hargrove and the person - the boy - he’s locked in a fistfight with.

Steve Harrington grapples with him, hair messy and eyes focused, his concern clearly on staying upright rather than on offense. He lands a few punches on Billy’s jaw, and Billy reels back, Steve pushing him into the kitchen. Your knuckles ache, and you move further into the house, the other kids noticing your presence but too caught up in the fight to move.

Billy slams into the kitchen counter and tips his head back, a wild laugh slipping past his red-stained lips, and you see his hands scrabbling behind him for a weapon, landing on a plate. He grips it tight and lifts it, and the white glass glint off the lights overhead before Billy crashes it down over Steve’s head.

Shards rain to the floor and carry pain with them, fire unfolding in your temple, a scream tumbling out of your mouth as you dip into the wall for support. Steve stumbles back, trying to catch his balance, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. Your vision blurs, and warm liquid trails down one side of your face; blood, from a hit Steve took.

Billy lunges for him again, fists finding purchase on Steve’s skin, the pain and injuries jumping into you, leaving you both bloody and near-insensible.

Before the dark swallows you whole and drags you under, your last thought is _it’s him_.

* * *

There is no time to deal with the reality that has slammed into focus until later, far later, when the kids and Steve - and, you, reluctantly waking up in the back of Billy’s car and thrown right into their game - have fled the tunnels and meandered back to the Byers home.

At the end of the night, when the kids split off and head home, you’re left lingering in the Byers driveway, holding a towel to your head to stop the bleeding from a reopened wound. Steve exits the home, walking unsteadily down the porch steps, his injuries hitting home now that the adrenaline has worn off.

He pauses at the base of the porch, gaze on you, his eyes tracing a path around the bruises and cuts and blood you share, the mirrored injuries. His lips part as if to speak, but nothing comes out.

You cross the driveway to the porch, dropping down onto one of the steps, and Steve sits down beside you, both silent for a long time.

Of all the people you expected to share a soul with, to be cosmically linked to or destined to, or however you want to explain it, Steve Harrington was pretty far down the list. Steve Harrington, pretty boy basketball player, the high school girl’s sweetheart.

Or, at least, he was. A year ago, around the time of your first concussion - Steve’s concussion - whatever reign he’d held over Hawkins High dissolved, leaving him out of place and out of his element. He’d become quiet, not pushing the boundaries he’d spent years nudging forward, not raising his voice or lifting his head.

“Did you know?” He asks eventually, not looking at you, gaze on the horizon and the moonlit sky. His brows furrow and he sneaks a glance at you. “You know. Before I got you knocked out.”

You snort. “You’ve knocked me out more times than this. But, no. I didn’t”

His brows furrow deeper and a frown tugs on his lips. You shift to face him, reaching up to brush the hair away from the right side of your face to reveal a healed scar.

“This was last year,” you say. “I was in the store, and I swear to god, I hit the ground in seconds. My mother just about had an aneurysm.”

He grimaces, and says, “Shit. I’m sorry.” He rakes a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really believe you were out there, somewhere, you know? I always figured…And you never got hurt, so I barely ever felt it, and…” He shakes his head again, but you understand, understand more than he knows.

You spent many a night wondering if there really was someone out there for you, someone waiting, someone wanting. Even with the recurring bruises and breaks that popped up out of nowhere, you fell deep into doubt. Half your classmates have met their soulmates already, and statistically, another quarter will find them in college, or in the workforce.

You know that, have always known it, but after so many cold and lonely nights, hope is hard to hold onto. It gets slippery, and when it starts to melt away, finding the drive to _grab on_ is even harder than _holding on_.

“I didn’t get hurt much as a kid,” you say. “You kinda covered it for both of us.”

An apologetic, almost shameful, expression settles into his features, and you reach out to take his hand without thinking, threading your fingers through his. He stills, gaze snapping to you and dropping to your hands, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t do anything but look at you.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head and looking away. “Sorry, I just… _god_. I mean, I never thought…”

“Me neither.”

“But you felt it,” he says, lips turning down in a frown as he shifts toward you. “You felt my pain.”

You laugh mirthlessly, letting your gaze skate along the bumpy, gravel driveway and the dark trees and even darker sky. Just because you feel pain doesn’t mean you know where it comes from; doesn’t mean it even comes from anywhere. Sometimes, pain is just pain, and it just _is_ , as much as we wish it wasn’t.

“Honestly?”

“I think there’s probably a law out there saying you can’t lie to your soulmate.”

You scoff. “Because you’re well versed in soulmate lore?”

He shrugs, and one side of his mouth tugs up in a lopsided grin for a beat before it smoothes out.

“ _Honestly_ ,” you say, “I…I thought you’d die before I even met you.”

Your words strip the laughter from his expression, etch it into stone and harden it. He lets out a breath, shoulders sinking, and his thumb traces back and forth along the top of your hand, almost instinctually, absentmindedly.

“Yeah, I felt the same a few times.” His lips curl up in a smile, but it’s humorless, his eyes far away.

You look back at the house, the door closed but still hiding a home covered in paper and vines and probably a fair share of blood, and return your gaze to Steve. Even bloodied and bruised, he’s handsome, a boyish lightness to his features, a determination in his eyes you’ve never looked close enough to see, a kindness lurking beneath the surface that he’s afraid to let out. 

Kindness is quickly shot down in this world, and despite only seeing a glimpse of Steve’s world and its monsters, it’s clear the same rule applies. And yet, he hasn’t been bent or broken, but sharpened, strengthened. He’s still clinging to kindness, even if he struggles to find it at times.

“You know you’re going to tell me about all of this, right?”

One side of his mouth quirks up.

“Don’t think I have a choice at this point,” he says. “But we’ve got time.”

The word _forever_ pops into your head, and though you don’t say it, you hold it close and wrap your arms around it.

“Unless you get us killed.”

He snorts, squeezing your hand and lifting it to inspect your bruised knuckles. His lips pull thin and he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a careful kiss to the top before letting your twined fingers rest against your thigh. When he meets your gaze again, he almost looks shy, nervous, uncertain. You’re surprised to find you feel the same.

It’s terrifying, absolutely fucking frightening, but not completely horrible or uncomfortable. It’s a good kind of fear, anticipation. Your heart thrums against your chest, hard and fast, and though you kind of want to throw up, there’s not much that could convince you to move, to look away, to do anything but what you’re doing right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, pulling his hand from yours and lifting it to your temple, fingers ghosting across the cut. You reach out to tap the side of his own head, a centimeter from the injury.

“Not your fault, “ you say. “You’re just as broken as I am right now.”

His face twists. “Still, if I-”

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” He meets your gaze, scanning your expression for something - most likely, a trace of doubt or regret or sadness. There are horror stories of soulmates who find each other one to discover they can’t stand the other, or one half is already married off, or one of the souls has no interest in pairing, etc, etc. Enough scary stories to drown out the hope.

But Steve doesn’t find regret or doubt, because there isn’t any.

If given the choice, you don’t know if you’d have picked Steve Harrington. Looking at him now, though, bent but not broken, strong and kind and so alive after all he’s seen, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You’ve still got time to run if you want,” you say. His brows furrow and he shifts all the way toward you, shaking his head.

“What?”

“I’m just saying, if you don’t want-”

“Y/N.”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

His lips curl up in a smile, and yours lift to mirror it; interesting, to mirror him without any pain following. He takes your hand again and looks down at your twined fingers for a moment before meeting your eyes.

“You’re my _soulmate_ ,” he says, shaking his head. “ _Holy shit._ ”

“ _Holy shit_ ,” you say, nodding in agreement, smile widening. Steve’s smile is so big you’re worried it might split his face open, but it’s too dazzling for you to do anything but sit there, smiling at him, two foolish kids with matching bruises sitting beneath a starless sky, staring and staring and staring.

You stay there for a long time, sitting on the Byers’s front porch with your hand in Steve’s, dipping in and out of silence to talk about random things or ask questions. There’s no rush, no driving force, just newfound ease and the sense that the road ahead stretches far and long. You have time, time to figure it out and figure each other out and find the right path. But, for the first time in your life, you no longer have to do it alone.


	2. you can tell the heroes go hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interrogation beneath the base w more canon tinkering cuz i can

The idea of love as pain, as a weakness, is most clear to anyone with a soulmate. The physicality and emotionality of it all are so closely intertwined, vines that have grown together for so long they’ve become indistinguishable, that it’s hard not to associate loving someone with hurting.

Once the soulmate is found, the odd assortment of old bruises and breaks and scars being given explanations, the concept of hurt changes. When a tiny slice appears on the thumb, you know your other half turned a book page too fast in the other room, and you smile and shake your head. When they reach for a pan and get burned, you both jam your hands beneath the faucet, grimacing and pressed against one another against the sink.

It stopped feeling so much like weakness a long time ago, after the bruises left by Billy Hargrove faded and the only new culprits are clumsiness or pure accidents. They’re no longer worrisome, no longer something to agonize over.

You don’t have to worry that your soulmate is in danger or dying because you see him every day, because you talk to him each night on the phone, because the monsters that plagued the day fell away months ago.

Steve Harrington is safe, and so are you, and you’re together. It’s how it was always supposed to be. 

Until it isn’t.

* * *

The thing nobody talks about, the part that isn’t advertised, about soulmates, is how easily they are to be used. Making something sting is a lot more powerful when you’re leaving a bruise on the person they love, too.

When the trapdoor slams shut above Dustin and Erica’s heads and the metal door holding back the Russian’s slams open, throwing you, Robin, and Steve onto the concrete, the decision to keep the soulmate information in the dark is an unspoken one, made through glances exchanged by the three of you and curt nods before you’re dragged to your feet and out of the boiler room.

The secret splinters within seconds. The moment the guard yanks Steve roughly by the arm and you yelp the room goes still, soldiers exchanging looks, their lips curling up in equally chilling smiles.

“Ah, pairs are so fun,” one of the soldiers quips in a thick accent. Robin spits expletives and Steve struggles against the hands on him, but neither can stop the guards surrounding you and dragging you toward the door.

“Bastards!” Robin snarls, kicking and writhing in the guard’s grip. Steve’s anger is just as palpable, if not more, redder and hotter and sharper, his features twisted tighter than you’ve ever seen them.

“Steve,” you say, fear tearing any coherent thought out of reach and filling your veins with ice. “Steve, it’s okay, don’t do anything stupi-” The guard clamps his hand across your mouth, and something animalistic inside you sparks open. You clamp down on his palm with your teeth, and he yelps and pulls his hand away, but your satisfaction is short lived, dying with the backhanded slap that shakes your teeth. Metal blooms on your tongue, and across the room, Steve splits a gob of blood onto the blood, still fighting the man’s grip.

He doesn’t stop fighting even after the door shuts, but there’s nothing he can do to stop them from dragging you away, far away, too far away for him to reach.

* * *

Robin and Steve are deposited in an empty, windowless room, dropped gracelessly onto the floor and locked inside. Both scramble to their feet and bolt to the door, but it buzzes locked before they even reach it.

Steve comes to a halt in front of the locked door, slamming his fist against the door.

“ _Dammit_ ,” he curses, and hits the door again, wincing.

“Steve,” Robin says softly, catching his eye and nodding at his hand, “don’t make their pain any worse right now.”

Rage contorts Steve’s features, burning him from the inside out. The invisible tether that stretches between you has never felt this long; you’ve never felt so far away, so unreachable. He knows, logically, that you’re only a few doors down, but for all he can do about it, it might as well be three thousand miles.

“Robin, I…” He stops, hands curling into fists, gritting his teeth. He’s a cresting wave, a rollercoaster at the top of the hill, a volcano bubbling up to burst. He’s going to explode, and he can’t do a damn thing about it, or anything else. He’s stuck in this room while the Russians have their claws on you. 

Robin’s expression twists, pain and frustration and anger and fear flitting across her features. She opens her mouth to speak, but her words are stolen by the opening of the door, a Russian soldier entering. He’s clearly no young recruit, but a hardened soldier, older than Steve’s parents, lines etched into his stern features.

“The second half of our little pair,” he says, lips curling up an evil smile that he fixes on Steve.

“If you touch them, I _swear to god_ -” An invisible force slams into Steve’s gut, ripping the breath from his lungs. He keels over, dropping to his knees and gasping for air.

The soldier, name tag reading Ozerov, bend down in front of him, that sick smile stuck to his lips.

“You were saying?”

“You sick son of a bitch-” Robin snaps, lunging for him, only to be stopped by two guards that use quickly through the door and grab onto her, yanking her over to a chair and shoving her into her. Her protesting squirms are no match for the men, and she’s easily strapped to the chair.

“Now.” Ozerov stalks slowly in front of Steve, hands folded behind his back, a predator pacing before its powerless prey. “If you just tell us what we want to know, no one has to get hurt. Your little…” He flicks a gaze toward the door, lip curling in disdain. “Pодственную душу.” It isn’t a word Steve recognizes, but the context is clear enough. There are a million different translations, a million different ways to say _soulmate_.

Steve has always found _soulmate_ a little cliche, a little cheesy. He thinks of it differently, in broader terms. He thinks of it as his _person_. The one who makes bad days a little better and good days perfect. Someone who feels like coming home; who is home. It’s a scary thing, to be known, to be understood, but with the right person, it’s exciting, too. Sharing secrets and shaking hands with skeletons in closets and tipping hats at the dark days as they go by, hand in hand. The monsters under the bed don’t really matter as long as they are next to you.

The universe may have assigned him you, but he believes he’d have chosen you, anyway. Without the pain, without the scars.

And he won’t lose you, not here, not beneath a goddamn mall in goddamn sailor’s uniforms. After everything, this isn’t how it ends.

He pushes himself up onto his knees, lifting his knees to meet Ozerov’s eyes.

“Who do you work for?”

“Scoops Ahoy,” he says, the truth. Irritation flickers in Ozerov’s eyes.

A punch in another room lands on Steve’s eyes, the pain so overwhelming he nearly throws up right there on Ozerov’s shoes. Another follows too quickly for him to catch his breath, this one splitting his bottom lip open and filling his mouth with blood.

“ _Screw you_ , you sick bast-” This hit, to the ribs, followed by a cry of pain down the hall, hurts the most. It rips Steve’s heart in half with it splinters one of his ribs - one of your ribs - and he doesn’t realize tears are brimming and falling until he tastes salt in the metal.

“Stop it! Please, please stop it!” Robin screams, her cheeks shining with tears. She thrashes in the chair, managing to free herself and scrambling onto the floor and over to Steve. The hits come quicker and quicker, and with each one, Steve’s resolve crumbles.

But in the end, it isn’t Steve that breaks. He tries to; he tries to for longer than he wants to admit; long enough to plant shame in his gut and water it. He just can’t get the words out through the blood in his mouth.

Robin gives in, cradling a limp and half-conscious Steve in her lap, telling them about the elevator and the code and all of it.

Ozerov leaves without another word, a contented smile playing on his lips, the door buzzing shut behind him.

* * *

Dustin and Erica come to the rescue just as expected, pulling Robin and Steve to a stolen vehicle and popping open the backdoor to reveal you in the metal cage, leaning against the far corner. You’re bloodier than Steve, more swollen, but you still smile at the sight of him, though its lopsided and red-stained.

“For once, I’m glad someone did a stupid thing,” you say, words thick but clear. Relief fills Steve’s chest and he climbs into the back of the cart, dropping next to you and reaching up to asses the injuries, fingers fluttering over your skin.

Robin climbs in behind him and tugs the door shut, the cart pulling forward moments later, rough and jerky, but fast. She bangs on the cage and yells at them to stop jerking the wheel, to which Dustin curses her out, and Erica yells at them both to shut up.

Steve doesn’t - can’t - take his eyes off you, though you’re more coherent with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I tried to-”

“Shut up, Harrington,” you snap. His brows furrow, but he does as told. “I just got the shit beat out of me, and I’m not in the mood for pointless apologies. Especially since I’m the reason you’re hurt.”

“ _You’re_ hurt because _you_ followed _me_ into that elevator.”

“Oh, because there was _ever_ a chance I _wasn’t_ going to follow you-”

“I’m just saying, I-”

“Both of you, _shut up_!” Dustin yells from the front seat. “For once, I’d actually prefer the making out. At least that’s _quiet_.”

Robin snickers, and Steve reaches up to bang on the cage.

“ _You_ shut up!”

“No, _you_ shut up!” Dustin retorts.

“All of you, _shut the fuck up_!” Robin yells, voice carrying over them all. “You can all argue or make out or whatever the _hell_ you want when we get _out_ of this place, but for now, let’s just focus on _not_ getting killed by Russians, _okay_?”

* * *

The EMT’s outside the mall check you and Steve out simultaneously, both tossing out explanations for the other’s identical injuries. After you’ve been cleared and cleaned and wrapped in bandages and thick blankets, Steve leads you over to his car at the edge of the lot - fortunately spared by the explosions and carnage.

You drop into the passenger seat and tug the door shut, letting out a sigh and shifting to face Steve when he climbs into the car. He gives you a tiny, strained smile, and averts his gaze.

“Steve Harrington has nothing to say? I don’t believe it.”

He snorts a laugh, but it’s half-hearted and distracted. You slide across the seat until your leg bumps his, the contact lifting his eyes to yours. You gesture around you, the clearing parking lot and the dark carnage of the mall.

“It’s over,” you say. “We’re okay. We’re all okay.”

“Not all of us,” he says. Your heart twinges.

“No. Not all of us.” You dip your chin, pressing your lips to his shoulder for a long moment before lifting your head. “Talk to me,” you say softly.

He closes his eyes for a beat before looking at you.

“When I heard you scream…” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t get to you, or stop it, or-”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“No,” he says, “but if you and I weren’t-” He pauses. “You never would have been there. You’d never have been in danger. Everything that’s happened to you, it’s because of _me_. How can you…” He trails off, but you pick up the thread.

“How can I want to be with you?”

He shrugs a shoulder dismissively.

“I didn’t pick this,” you say. “Neither of us did. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t, if I had the choice.”

“Would you?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I would. I would choose you a thousand times, if I had to.”

Steve’s lips part and he shifts toward you, a hand coming up to settle against your uninjured cheek.

“So, you don’t…want it to be someone else?”

“No.” You smile, hand settling atop his. “I want it to be you.”

He dips his head, tipping his forehead against yours. As much as you’d like to kiss him, both your lips are swollen and split, and it would only end in more blood, of which you’ve both seen enough for one day - for one lifetime.

There’s time. Time for all of it, for anything. And there will be more dark days, more bloody nights and mournful moments, but there will be good, too. More good than you could possibly imagine. And to have someone to spend the time with, that’s one of the best parts of it all.


	3. keep me afloat in this cold world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the reader gets their period and steve feels it (and is overdramatic)

“I think I’m dying,” Steve announces, stumbling into the living room with his hands pressed to his gut, features twisted. He falls onto the couch, shifting so he can drop his head onto your lap and craning it to look up at you. Positively pitiful, with his hair mussed from continually raking his fingers through it and a too-large-hoodie dwarfing his figure.

“You’re not dying,” you say, “you’re on my period.”

He groans, hands falling to his stomach. You swat his hands away, replacing them with your own, gently kneading against the lower belly, massaging the way you’ve done to yourself over the years. He frowns, but settles more comfortably against you, and you let your hands rest atop his stomach.

“Am I gonna…you know…” He crinkles his nose, brows lifting, and you snort a laugh.

“Bleed? _No_. Haven’t you felt this before?”

He shrugs, and says, “Yeah, but I didn’t know what it _was_.”

“And what did you think it was?”

Another shrug.

“Food poisoning?”

“For five days a month, every month?”

He rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively, and you snort a laugh.

“I can’t talk, I guess. We sported the same bruises for a week after Jonathan Byers beat you up, and I didn’t figure out what was going on.”

“I didn’t even know I could _have_ it. Or _get_ it. Whatever.”

“I guess it makes sense. You feel my pain, and since mine are particularly painful, you get a helping of it.”

“More than a helping,” he grumbles. You roll your eyes.

“Woe is you.” You lightly push him up and off of you, slipping off the couch and heading for the kitchen, Steve humming in disapproval before getting up and joining you. He pulls himself up onto the counter, feet thumping the cabinets below him rhythmically, watching as you sift through the pantry and freezer.

You pull out a fresh tub of ice cream and a bag of pizza rolls, setting them on the island countertop next to a few half eaten bags of chips and a baggie of M&M’s. Gripping the countertop, you lean into it and gesture at the feast with a chin. Steve cocks a brow in question.

“This,” you say, “is the closest thing to a cure anyone has managed to find.”

“There’s not, like, medicine you can take? Or some…cream?”

“Cream?”

“I don’t know, something,” he says, lips puckering. “I mean, you and everyone with a… _shit_ , what’s it called?”

“Uterus.”

“You and everyone with a _uterus_ has to deal with this every month? And there’s nothing you can do to make it better?”

“There’s birth control, but that comes with its own set of side effects, and then there’s painkillers, but those are hit or miss.”

“So… basically, nothing?”

“Basically nothing. And the best part is, it lasts _forever_.”

“Forever.”

“Forever?” His eyes go wide, lips forming an O, and you shake your head, laughing.

“Kidding. Not forever. You’ve got premenopause, then perimenopause, _then_ -”

“ _Jesus_ ,” he says, shaking his head. You pull a baking sheet from the cabinet below his feet and dump the pizza rolls onto them, sticking them into the toaster oven and grabbing the ice cream and a spoon before moving to stand between Steve’s legs. You pop a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth and hand him the spoon.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” You say with a full mouth, grinning when Steve pouts. He shakes his head, an incredulous look on his face.

“It’s bullshit. My stomach hurts, I’m craving those shitty hot dogs on a stick, _and_ I started crying this morning because I dropped a hairbrush,” he says. You snort a laugh.

“That sounds about right,” you say.

“How do you go around _not_ punching people in the face when you feel like this? Anybody who gets a period deserves _way_ more credit. And a few get out of jail free cards.”

Your insides warm at the compassion in his tone, in his anger at the world for letting you - you, and half the population - hurt, his anger at the world for not doing enough - not caring enough - to find solutions. Your lips quirk up in a smile and you duck around the ice cream tub to kiss him, lips tasting of strawberries.

When you pull back, he frowns for a moment, though a smile quickly tugs his lips up.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing,” you say. “Just for…being you.”

He cracks a lopsided grin, setting the ice cream aside and looping his arms around your waist, tugging you closer.

“Another?” He asks.

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“I’m still _being me_ ,” he says, cocking a brow.

“An _annoying_ you.”

He grins, dropping a kiss on your nose, hands skimming up your sides, tracing up your shoulders before setting on your neck, thumbs on your jaw.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “that you have to deal with this.”

“Half the population does. More, with soulmates,” you say with a shrug. Steve shakes his head.

“Still. I wish there was more I could do, or-”

“Steve.”

He stops, meeting your gaze, a crease between his brows. You take his face in your hands, lips curling up in a tiny smile.

“You’re the sweetest boy in the world, you know that?” You ask. His cheeks flush and he averts his gaze, raking a hand through his hair with a shrug.

“Steve.”

He makes a face.

“Who’s the sweetest boy in the whole world?”

He gives you a withering look, to which your smile only widens. You lean closer, thug tracing along the scar at the corner of his lip, long healed from the beating beneath Starcourt.

He wasn’t always kind or compassionate or thoughtful. Or maybe he was, but those parts of him were too far buried beneath his facade to be reached. He didn’t have the luxury of kindness, or, at the very least, didn’t think he did.

Now, though, it’s almost impossible to see that cruel boy from the high school hallways. The confidence remains, as do the snarky remarks and jokes, but that piercing cruelty no longer edges his words, and his smiles are genuine, not sharp and barbed. He may not want to admit it, but Steve Harrington is good. He’s risked his life more times than you can count for people who gave nothing in return, did it solely because it was the right thing to do.

“Come on. Who is it?” You ask. One of the perks of being official: he can’t exactly dispute your claim. He just had to accept it, begrudgingly. It’s one of your favored pastimes, making Steve Harrington blush with silly compliments.

“Me,” he says with a sigh. You grin, and the edges of his lips curl up, like your smile is infectious.

The timer for the pizza rolls dings, and Steve exhales sharply.

“Thank god,” he says, turning to tug open the glass door of the microwave oven and scrape the hot rolls onto a plate with a finger, flinching each time he holds on too long.

“That eager to get out of being complimented? Who _are_ you?” You ask. He snorts, turning with the plate in hand and sliding off the counter.

“I’m cramping,” he says, “and so hungry I could eat a horse.”

You lift your hand, rubbing two fingers back and forth.

“Do you hear that? It’s a tiny violin-”

He rolls his eyes, a smile playing on his lips, piling the chips onto the plate and heading back to the small living room. You gather the rest of the food and follow, both curling up beneath blankets, feast laid out on the coffee table.

“We’ll hit the store tomorrow, and I’ll introduce you to the wonderful world of heating pads,” you say, handing off the ice cream tub to Steve and trading it for the chip bag.

“Can’t wait,” he says.

“But for now…” you say. He grins.

“For now, we feast.”

You laugh, leaning into his side, his arm around you, and tug the blankets up higher.

“Now, we feast.”

And though you hurt - both of you hurt - it’s manageable. It’s survivable, because Steve is beside you, because you’re not alone. Whether or not to go it solo is the crux, the place most of us screw ourselves. We get so caught up in ourselves we forget that other people are waiting outside our gates, waiting for them to be let down.

It’s not easy to open the gates. It’s one of the hardest things in the world. But once you do, once you finally throw open the curtains and fill the room with light, all the painful things struggle to find as much purchase.

If you’re with Steve, you can handle whatever comes at you, whether it be a typical period or a slavering monster. Whatever it is, you’ve got it.


End file.
